Amnesia
by superwholock1
Summary: Sherlock suffers amnesia and John is there to piece together the great mind to its original form and goes through all the hardships to do just that. While helping Sherlock regain his memories, he fabricates some of his own to give Sherlock memories he never had.
1. Chapter 1

_"__...No. Alright, stop it now…"_

_"__No! Stay exactly where you are. Don't move."_

_"…__Alright…"_

_"__Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do that for me?"_

_"__Do what?"_

_"__This phone call, it's…it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."_

_"__Leave a note when?"_

_"__Goodbye, John."_

_"__No. Don't-"_

That was the last conversation John ever had with Sherlock. There was so much he wanted to say to him, there was so much he wanted to do with him. That was his best friend that was his…his reason for living on so many occasions. He didn't even get to say a proper goodbye to him. He had to watch, like all of the other bystanders. He had to watch the world's on Consulting Detective jump to his death from the roof of St. Barts. He tried to go to him, he tried to get one last look at him, and he was trying to confirm his death because in his mind, Sherlock wasn't dead. Sherlock Holmes doesn't die, not when there are so many crimes to solve, not when there's a chance to make another archenemy, not when John Watson was still breathing.

_"__He's my friend…please let me through, I'm a doctor…"_

He was using that excuse again. He was using his profession as an excuse to see his best friend plastered on the cold, hard concrete. It was hazy, it was a hazy mess of doctors and civilians running to see the same thing he didn't want to. They pried his hand off of the body, and he couldn't fight them. He saw the blood and he couldn't fight them. They managed to get him away from the crowd and into the nearest taxi. They told the cabbie to send him to wherever he needed to be. Not wanting to go anywhere but not wanting to stay either, he gave up in defeat.

_"__Please…221B…Baker Street…"_

The cabbie responded in a curt nod and they started to drive away. John couldn't help but watch as they carried his friend away from the crimson stain on the grey sidewalk and into the hospital. He thought he wouldn't have to witness this again.

_"__I've seen men die before- and good men, friends of mine. I thought I'd never sleep again…I'll sleep fine tonight."_

_"__Quite right."_

But he wasn't right was he? He did witness a friend of his die. He won't be able to sleep again. Not without Sherlock. Not without that mad man waltzing around the flat with his experiments, not without his violin playing at ungodly hours of the night, not without the many times he snuck into John's room to comfort him from nightmares, and not without him shooting the house down out of boredom.

_"__No, Sherlock…this is the one time you weren't right…I won't be okay, I won't…What's John Watson without his Sherlock Holmes?"_

What was 221B without its resident? What is Mrs. Hudson without her "son"? What is Greg without his colleague? What was Mycroft without his little brother? What was anybody without him?

_"__Nobody…I'm nobody…"_

That's what John was. He was one of the things that killed Sherlock, called him a machine, told him that he attracts danger wherever he goes, and said awful things to him when he needed him most. What kind of friend was that? Not a very good one. The doctor sank back into the seat of the cab and allowed the driver to take him to his home, his empty home.

When he returned he half expected Sherlock to be waiting at the door like a puppy eager for its owner to return.

_"__Do you understand now?"_

John would have no idea what he's talking about.

_"__I was telling you about the case, John."_

John would realize that he was talking to himself again. He didn't realize that he left the flat and thus his ramblings continued. John would roll his eyes and sigh.

_"__No Sherlock I have no clue as to what you're going on about because I wasn't here."_

Then he would spend twenty minutes to the next half an hour explaining his deductions of the case again so John could form his own opinion on the matter. He laughed. Sherlock's mouth would run a mile a minute if no one stopped him or if he didn't stop to breathe. But that added on to his charm. John didn't know anyone else like Sherlock. He never would.

He sat in his chair, staring at the vacant one across from him. The one that should've had the other male seated in it, or huddled, depending on how he was feeling. John could count all the times he found Sherlock staring at him, watching him perform his hopelessly dull and pedestrian things. He would watch John type up their case on his blog and question him relentlessly.

_"__What did you name the case this time?"_

_"__Why did you name it that?"_

_"__Why must you type like that?"_

_"__Are you done yet?"_

_"__John can you stop and make some tea?"_

_"__Are you listening anymore?"_

John would answer them all. Sometimes he would ignore Sherlock because he wasn't in the mood to talk to him. He regrets those times he ever ignored Sherlock. He knows that Sherlock was ignored a lot and that sometimes he really wanted someone to listen to him, and that one person was John.

_"__That's the frailty of genius John; it needs an audience."_

John closed his eyes and listened to the soft, baritone voice in his head. He nodded slowly.

_"__Yes Sherlock, you're right. You're always right."_

John was his audience and that's all Sherlock needed.

Going to sleep was hard that night. He didn't like how quiet it was in the flat. There was once a time when John would pray for one night of silence in the flat, where he would welcome it. Where he wanted Sherlock to stop playing that violin and go to sleep like a normal person, now there was nothing he wanted more than to hear Sherlock's violin, and to have Sherlock playing it until three in the morning. Now he wanted the noise.

_"__Now what are you in the mood for tonight, John?"_

John squeezed his eyes tighter so whatever tear that was fighting him to come out, wouldn't win.

_"__Anything you play tonight is fine, Sherlock."_

And if he tried hard enough, he could hear the faint tune of Brahms' Lullaby playing in the distance.

It wasn't a few weeks after he died, John got a call. It was from Saint Barts. He almost wanted to let it go to voicemail. He didn't want anything to do with that place anymore. But he couldn't, he just couldn't. He prayed for a miracle and maybe this was it. Swiftly he picked up the phone and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Is this John Watson?"

John hesitated at first.

"Yes…yes this is he…"

"Are you free to come down to the hospital today?"

Brows furrowed.

"For what reason?"

"Mycroft Holmes asked for you. He said that it was something about his brother."

"Brother?"

"That's what he told us, and that he would like for you to come."

What is this? What could Mycroft possibly be talking about? He had to find out.

"Uh, yes, I'll be there shortly."

"Excellent, see you soon Mr. Watson."

The woman hung up. John stared at his phone for a few more minutes. This couldn't be…

Not wasting another moment, he grabbed his coat and walked out of the door.


	2. Chapter 2

John made it to the hospital in record time. He almost threw his money at the cabbie and then dashed into the building. What was Mycroft talking about help with his brother? Sherlock is dead; Mycroft should know that, as he loved to claim, he is smarter than Sherlock. It's understandable that it was his brother, little brother in fact and that he did care about him more than probably anything else in the world but there was nothing he could do to bring him back. Wasn't John doing the same thing? Wasn't he living in extreme denial about his death? Wasn't he imagining his flat mate every day and night, doing everything that he would usually complain about in the morning? John's thoughts were interrupted by a woman dressed in a nurse's uniform walked up to him.

"John Watson?"

"Uh…yes, I was called here by a Mycroft Holmes?"

She smiled. Her painted red lips reaching both ends of her face.

"Right this way."

As they walked to the destination, John decided to get some information out of her.

"So, has he told you anything?"

She only laughed again and shook her head.

"Whatever I told you over the phone was all I've been told and all I know."

That sounded like Mycroft, vague and mysterious. John was beginning to think that it ran in the genes.

"Here we are."

They stopped in front of the room with the numbers one hundred twenty-one on it. She opened the door but didn't go inside. She stared at the man expectedly.

"Are you going in?"

John blinked.

"Yes, yes, sorry."

She watched him stand in the doorway and walked away to perform her duties. There was Mycroft, standing there, resting some of his weight on his cherished umbrella. John has never seen him without it. Mycroft's eyebrow rose at the sight of John.

"I see you decided to come."

"Well when you get a call from the hospital stating that Mycroft Holmes needs assistance with his brother, what else are you gonna do?"

Mycroft gave one of his little smirks and then glanced at the floor. John prepared himself for whatever it is he would say in reply.

"John I—"

"No, I'm not done.

Mycroft smirked.

"If I look behind you right now and see Sherlock's dead body or a weird Frankenstein creation on that bed, I'm walking out and I'm…I'm gunna…"

"John, Sherlock didn't die."

John staggered back, as if being dealt a troubling hit.

"What did you say?" He spoke in a hushed tone of anger.

"I said my brother's demise hasn't happened yet."

He walked over to the bed and threw back the curtain that was surrounding the cot. There occupying the bed was Sherlock, who looked to be sleeping. His hair was a mess; it was unruly and looked to be going every which way. The only thing that kept it from swallowing the pillow was a big white bandage wrapped around his head stained with red on the side of it. John also saw that his left arm was in a sling. Thank god he's right-handed. John looked back at Mycroft.

"What happened?" That anger was being mixed with a whole palette of emotions.

Mycroft waltzed over to Sherlock and looked at him while talking to John.

"He survived."

John clenched his jaw. Now wasn't the time for the smart-ass side of Mycroft to come out.

"Mycroft…"

The older man rolled his eyes.

"Are you aware of the Lazarus Project, John?"

"Sorry, the what?"

"The Lazarus Project. It's what Sherlock and I came up with."

"There's something I do not understand here."

"I'm not surprised…"

One angry glare from John got Mycroft talking again.

"We both knew that Jim Moriarty was going to kill my brother. It was Sherlock who informed me that he was going to kill you lot if Sherlock chose to live and not go through with his death. So Lazarus was born. Sherlock was going to jump off of St. Barts and instead of dying; he would fall right onto a giant inflatable platform. He would then undergo quick cosmetics to look as if he had cracked his head open on the sidewalk and would position himself on the floor to look the part. Then my workers would come and act as if they were whisking Sherlock away to the morgue and you would all be safe. However, that didn't go according to plan, as you can see."

John really didn't want to ask but he needed to.

"…What happened?"

Mycroft inhaled.

"He certainly did crack his head open. You see, he still had to jump off the roof in order for this plan to work. One of my workers got complacent and they left a rubbish bin too close to the platform and Sherlock hit his head on the way down. We thought the plan was done for but then that would result in all of you dying and I know Sherlock wouldn't be able to handle the deaths of the people he holds dear so I had to…continue with the plan…"

John's anger was back again.

"So you threw your brother on the sidewalk, knowing that he was seriously hurt?"

"I'm not proud of what I did but I had to do it."

"So let me guess, I saw his injured body bleeding out on the sidewalk and then your workers whisked him away to the hospital so he could get the medical care he needed."

"Quite right."

John's fists were throbbing to punch this man in the face, British government or not.

"What if it had been too late for him, hm? What if Sherlock died?"

Mycroft looked into John's eyes with a hidden sadness.

"Then that would be my burden to carry."

John scoffed, not caring about Mycroft's guilt at the moment and pushed past him to sit on the bed. Staring at Sherlock's sleeping form made John feel things, some things he wanted to, or things he didn't. Without looking at Mycroft he asked, "How badly was he hurt?"

"His wounds will heal, though there is a slight defect…"

"How slight?"

"Wake him up and find out."

John rolled his eyes at Mycroft's cryptic talk. He gently shook the younger man and watched as his eyes fluttered open to reveal those grey-blue eyes he thought he would never see again. John unknowingly beamed at his sight. Miracles do come true.

"Oh thank god you're alive, Sherlock."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. He looked John up and down and opened his mouth. What he says crushes John in so many ways.

"Who…Who are you?"

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for all of the people reading! It would really help a lot if you could try and pass this story around. I would greatly appreciate it! **


	3. Chapter 3

John's eyes widened.

"What?"

Sherlock asked again, "Who are you?" he looked at Mycroft "You as well. I don't know who any of you are."

John looked over at the elder brother who was facing away. He couldn't look Sherlock in the eyes. John wasn't surprised; he was using everything he had to be this close to Sherlock. To the man who he thought died, the man he thought he would never see again, the man who didn't remember him. Sherlock readjusted himself in the bed, sitting up to get a better look at the two strange men in his room.

"What are you doing in my room? I'm going to call a nurse in here to escort you out!"

"Sherlock, Sherlock wait." John immediately tried to calm him down. It seemed to be working.

"My name is John Watson. We're flat mates; we live on 221B Baker Street with , our landlady."

"I don't have a flatmate. I don't live on 221B, I don't even know where that is!"

John closed his eyes and nodded.

"No you wouldn't, would you?"

Sherlock's lip twitched. John kept on.

"I'm an army doctor, I fought in Afghanistan. I was wounded in battle…"

"Why do I care?"

_'__I don't know why would you care?'_

"I'm telling you all of this because you deduced it once. You do know how to do a deduction, right?"

_'__Don't tell me that you can't Sherlock; please don't tell me that you can't do what makes you special please tell me you can deduce who I am…'_

"I don't know! I don't know what's going on, I don't know who you are and I don't care, frankly!"

John felt another part of his heart shrivel and die when Sherlock said that. He doesn't care about John Watson, he doesn't know who John Watson is and he doesn't care. Sherlock Holmes can't deduce. Sherlock Holmes isn't Sherlock Holmes. John gave one more attempt at trying.

"This man behind me, this man is your brother. Mycroft Holmes, okay? He works for the British government; you would argue that he IS the British government."

Sherlock seemed to calm down. He looked back at Mycroft and back at John with a blank expression. John thought that he was trying to remember, trying to figure out who they were. Go into his mind palace or something like that.

"Mycroft, John."

"Yes Sherlock?"

"Would you please excuse yourselves out of my room? You're giving me a headache."

John was taken aback.

"What? Sherlock, no…"

Mycroft grabbed John by the arm. John turned to face him and was met with a sympathetic look.

"Come on John, no use in getting him upset."

John hung his head in defeat and slowly rose to his feet. Normally it would take more for him to leave Sherlock in the state that he's in but, Sherlock wanted him to leave. He'd given Sherlock a headache; he irritated Sherlock, who just came out of a semi-coma. He will leave, but not before he gets his last words out. He turned around to face Sherlock.

"Sherlock, please, remember. Remember who you are."

_'__Remember who I am…'_

"Remember what you do, and remember why…"

John froze right there. He couldn't get those last words out. He knew what he wanted to say, he just couldn't say it. He wouldn't be able to. He can't say those words until Sherlock remembers him. Until he remembers his blogger, his best man, his doctor, his John Watson. He could've sworn he saw the man's face falter for a moment. It looked like he actually cared for a moment, for a short moment. John just hoped that he listened. But then again this was Sherlock we were talking about, he never listens. Mycroft held the door open for him and once they were outside of the room, he closed the door.

"For a doctor, you sure are shoddy with handling with your patients."

"Sorry, what? What is that supposed to mean?"

Mycroft started twirling his umbrella around.

"While you aren't up to my league of intelligence, I'm sure you can see that Sherlock has amnesia, yes?"

John looked away and then back at Mycroft.

"Yes, I can see that. What's your point? "

"My point is that Sherlock doesn't have a clue about who you are, and he probably doesn't know who he is. When you rush in like that and start giving him all of this information, he is going to get overwhelmed and it will become too much for him to handle."

"So what are you saying? Are you saying I should just let Sherlock sit there and not tell him anything about who he is or what we do? Is that what you're saying? Because that's what I'm hearing."

"I'm saying that you can provide him with the necessary information when he asks for it, which shall be fairly soon."

"Why do you think that?"

That smug smile stretched across his lips.

"If I know my brother right, he will want to know everything he possibly can, amnesia or not."

John just nodded and turned around to walk away when he halted, and then spun back around.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Mycroft raised his eyebrows."

"Why is that I'm the only one that cares about him at all, that he's like this? Why don't you care? That is your brother last time I checked."

Mycroft sighed.

"Like I told Sherlock before, caring is not an advantage."

"So you don't care that your brother can't remember who you are?"

"Will caring about him get his memory back?"

John blinked repeatedly and gave a more defensive stance.

"I'd like to think so."

Mycroft chuckled.

"Go back home, John. I'll call you if anything happens here."

John found himself marching out of the hospital with a million and one thoughts swirling around in his head. Sherlock has amnesia, Sherlock can't remember. John has to help him get his thoughts back. And John Watson agrees, he will do anything to get his detective back…


	4. Chapter 4

Upon his return to the empty flat, John sank down in his chair with a certain heaviness wracking his body. He looked over at the couch and imagined his tall, lanky friend sprawled out on it, complaining about a case that they were on and how blatantly obvious the solution was it. John looked behind him and saw Sherlock waltzing into the living room with his blue silk robe and looking at John with the look that he wanted company but didn't know how to ask, but John knew. John always knew.

But all he can hear in his head right now is that conversation he had with him in the hospital.

_"Who are you?" _

_"I don't know who you are!" _

_"Can you excuse yourself? You're giving me a headache." _

John closed his eyes and took an inhale so deep that he thought his chest was going to burst. The man that John spent so long mourning for was lying in a hospital cot, unconscious. John imagined so many different scenarios on his way to Bart's. He imagined Sherlock was sitting in the bed, fully dressed and fussing with the nurses who were only trying to make sure he was fit enough to leave. He imagined Mycroft and him getting into a hushed argument, probably Sherlock turning his worried brother away or him trying to convince Mycroft that he was perfectly okay and could return to 221b with John. He never imagined that Sherlock would stare at him with the look he had on his face. The reserved anger and confusion of seeing John, the frustration of being told that they were acquainted in the past and that they were best friends, but never seeing that person in your life. John was angry, but he couldn't help but think about how Sherlock was feeling. People rarely do.

Hearing a familiar knock at the door, followed by the also familiar, "Yoo-hoo!" was Mrs. Hudson. She had that ever so cheerful and maternal smile on her face as she walked into the flat. She looked around the room and then her eyes glanced over to Sherlock's stuff that was sitting on his desk, collecting dust. She shook her head.

"It's been a while since I've been up here. I really should dust that and clean the place up a bit but…it's just…Sherlock would have a right fit if I touched his belongings…"

John forgot. Besides Mycroft, John was the only other person who knew that Sherlock was still alive. Everybody else was kept in the dark. Part of John wanted to tell her, along with everybody else, but if she were to see Sherlock in the state that he was in now, he can't bear to see how much it would hurt her. She loves Sherlock and John so much that they might as well be her own kids, they love her too and that's why John is going to wait to tell her. But he doesn't know how long the amnesia is going to last, or if it will ever go away.

"I know Mrs. H, I miss him too. I can't bear to touch any of his stuff either."

He saw her eyes getting teary. Her hand moved to her mouth to prevent her from doing something she didn't want to do, it was probably so many things. John wanted to comfort her, but he was going through his own grief and he could barely stand that. Mrs. Hudson was the one to break that awkward tension, all the sadness leaving her face and the bubbly happiness returning.

"How are you John, you barely come downstairs anymore, are you eating? Do you need anything? I'm only doing this because you're going through a rough time. Remember that I'm your landlady and not your housekeeper. "

John gave a bitter smile.

"I'm fine, Mrs. H, I know I haven't been coming to see you and I'm sorry. I've been eating enough to get by."

She shook her head in a scolding fashion.

"Rubbish. Come downstairs and we'll have a meal together. It'll do us both some good."

John wanted to decline and to tell her to leave him to his self-wallowing and pity, but he didn't have the heart to. She was only trying to help and to do what she thought would make him feel better. Remember, she's the surrogate mother. He resigned to agree, and followed her downstairs to her flat so that they could do their best to enjoy the company of each other. And maybe John could at least pretend that Sherlock was going to return to home with his brilliant memory intact. That everything was going to be okay. 

Sherlock was lying in his cot, trying to stop his infernal head ache from pounding away inside of his skull, when the man he remembered calling himself Mycroft walked into his room again. He groaned at the sight of the overly demure and posh man with his umbrella standing at the side of his bed. Holding the side of his head as if it were about to fall off, Sherlock slowly sat up, not trying to irritate his issue anymore and have it progress into a migraine.

"What is the matter? Having a bit of head problem? Do you need a nurse?"

Sherlock glared at Mycroft.

"I do not need any more people coming into my room to poke and prod at me as they please. You included. "

Mycroft's lips pursed together.

"When are you going to understand, it IS my job to poke and prod at you, and to tell you the truth, I am far better than any of these nurses here."

"What makes you say that?"

That smug smile came to his smooth lips and he started twirling his beloved umbrella. Sherlock watched with slight disgust at the man.

"Because I know you, that's why."

"I have never seen you before in my life…"

"Mycroft."

"Pardon?"

"You were looking for my name, I could see your eyes darting back in forth for previous recollection of when you have heard it but it was not coming to your mind as quickly as you hoped. So I thought I would just tell you and save you the trouble, as I am so accustomed to doing."

Sherlock's brow rose at intrigue to Mycroft.

"Alright, Mycroft care to answer a few questions for me, since you and I go way back, apparently."

"Oh you have no idea." Mycroft teased.

"That man who came in here, who looked so sad when he saw me, was he right? Do I actually know him?"

Mycroft looked him up and down.

"His name is John Watson, and why do you care? Last time I checked, you were completely indifferent to the man."

Sherlock's agitation rose.

"Do you get off on being so cryptic?"

"I should ask you the same thing."

Mycroft was obviously taking pleasure in this. Sherlock, however, was in no mood for these childish games. After a short while, Mycroft finally opened his mouth to speak.

"Tell me Sherlock, do you really want to know the answer to that question?"

"Do I?"

Mycroft pulled out his phone, smirking at the screen of it instead of the person he was talking to. As he pressed the buttons on it, he answered, "I think you do and I'll give you the answer to all the questions you have."

Sherlock was unsure of all of this and doubted the man in front of him.

"How can I trust you?"

With those cold eyes flickering over to the gray ones, he simply uttered, "You can't. But you have no choice but to trust me."

"I do."

"Yes."

Sighing in defeat, Sherlock released the side of his head and laid back in the bed.

"Since I have no other option, where are we going?"

The low rumbling of Mycroft's chest told Sherlock that he was laughing. Was he laughing at the situation, or was he laughing at Sherlock himself? Since he looked like a primped up prat, Sherlock thought that it was both.

"That's for me to know and for you to find out…"

~~~~~~~~~~~  
After the surprisingly pleasant dinner with Mrs. Hudson, John returned upstairs after saying his goodnights. While it wasn't a drastic change, he did feel a little bit of something being lifted off of him. Maybe this is what he needed, maybe all he needs is somebody to talk to, somebody who can distract him from the troubled thoughts of his friend…or was it more than that?

Trying his best to push those thoughts to the back of his head, he opened the door to his flat to find the one person he had been trying to move on from, the person who shooed him away at the hospital, sitting in his old chair and looking around the flat with unfamiliarity. John, still standing in the doorway, unnoticed by the curious detective had his mouth hanging open as an invitation to any lingering flies. He almost didn't hear himself mutter Sherlock's name. Said person snapped his eyes at the entrance to find the ex-soldier standing there. The grey eyes cutting into John's with a burning intensity.

"Sherlock?" John said louder than before.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock squinted as if he couldn't see John clearly, but John knew that wasn't the case.

"I know you. You were at the hospital with…Mycroft…I think that's the name. He told me that your name was…"

Sherlock looked down and his bushy brows furrowed as he tried to figure out John's name. John stood there, still in the doorway, with the door wide open. His fists clenched as he tried to suppress every feeling in his body to shout out his name, to take Sherlock in his arms and tell him who he was, what he did, and how much he loved his work. But if he knew Sherlock, he knew that he would want to figure it out by himself, even if he never did in the end.

"J-John, is that it?"

John's head slowly moved up and down. At least he got his name right, he could remember that much. Sherlock seemed satisfied with his correct guess and kept looking around the flat as if he hasn't been living there for years. John had to ask, he had to get the elephant in the room out of the way.

"Sorry, what are you doing here? It's not that I'm not happy to see you but…you're not fully healed."

The bandage was still on his head and his arm was still in its cast, as Sherlock's left coat sleeve was not on. He tilted his curly haired head slightly as if he didn't understand the question. His face was washed with a brief confusion before it returned to that stoic face.

"Mycroft put me here."

If John had a pound for every time Mycroft placed Sherlock in the worst situations, he would be one rich man. He crossed his arms and was starting to get angry at the elder brother's name.

"What do you mean Mycroft "put" you here?"

Sherlock looked impatient and rolled his eyes.

"He talked to me, at the hospital, and then he told me that the answers to my questions were here. He checked me out of the hospital and then dropped me off here and then drove away. "

'He ditched his brother who was suffering from amnesia in an unknown place?'

John just felt a part of his mouth twitch. For all that Mycroft says, he sure has a weird way of showing his love and concern for his baby brother. It couldn't have hurt him to stay until John got back? Pull him aside and inform him? John sighed. He understood why Mycroft did it. John was the only other person who knew that Sherlock was alive and of his condition, and as far as he was concerned, it would have to stay that way. Sadly, Sherlock was the secret between the elder Holmes and the ex-soldier.

"Brother of the year award goes to…" John muttered under his breath.

"Pardon?"

John shook his head.

"Sorry, I wasn't talking to you; I was just…talking to myself."

Sherlock gave him a funny look, but ignored the comment in his typical fashion. John sighed, he knew that this wasn't going to be easy for either of them but John would go through all the troubles he needed to, for Sherlock. Speaking of the detective, he returned to his seat on his couch and continued staring around the flat as if he hasn't done that enough.

"It's pretty late, do you want to go and have a quick kip or something?"

Sherlock looked so lost and it just tugged at John's heartstrings.

"What do you mean? Where will I sleep?"

"You…you live here, this is your, OUR flat."

"Really, I live here?"

John nodded and Sherlock seemed to take it to consideration as he placed his good hand on his lap and stared at it.

"So then, where is my room?"

John gave another sigh, but not one of stress. It was of pity for Sherlock and himself and he mentally apologized because he knows how much Sherlock hates any pity being shown on him.

"Your room is this way, let me show you."

He helped Sherlock up and led him to his room down the hall, Sherlock was walking slower than he usually would but John didn't have the heart to rush him. He was observing everything, like Sherlock Holmes does. When they set foot into the room, Sherlock looked at the bed, and the papers and posters everywhere and then back at John.

"This is my room?"

"…Yes…"

"I'm guessing I'm not a very tidy person." He smiled.

It made John's heart skip a beat when he saw his smile. Sherlock rarely did it, and John didn't blame him. Nobody ever gave him a reason to smile and then again, he would only save them for John and John loved to see them, especially when he's had a bad day at work and came home grumpy and tired.

"No, you're not. But that's okay, we're not all perfect."

Sherlock's smile softened, and then completely vanished. They both walked inside the room that hasn't been touch since his "death", nobody could bring themselves to go in there; it would be like disrespecting Sherlock. Sherlock turned around and said, "So I guess…I'll go to bed now."

John didn't even realize he was staring at Sherlock with a light smile on his face until the younger man started talking to him. He snapped out of his daze and shook his head.

"Yeah, yeah, sleep would be good. Do you…need any help?" John asked hesitantly.

"No that's okay; I…think I can manage." Sherlock replied rather awkwardly.

John looked away, he knew that was a stupid question to ask, but he was so overwhelmed that his best friend, his flatmate, and his colleague was back, albeit he had a few defects, but he was back and that's all that John needed. Noticing that Sherlock was waiting for him to leave so he could get changed, John turned to leave with his hand on the doorknob. He turned his head back around to say, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at him a long while before he responded, "Goodnight…John."


	6. Chapter 6

_"Get down! Everybody get down now!" _

_John couldn't see him, but he heard his commanding officer bark the orders to take cover. He wasn't sure if everybody else followed the orders, there were some rebellious soldiers in his company who never listened to their commander, not even when their lives depended on it. John immediately released his rifle and laid down flat on his stomach, the coarse soil rubbing against his uniform. It was already hot, reaching ninety-five, and his helmet didn't make it any better. _

_"I SAID GET DOWN!" _

_He was yelling at the ones who already experienced fighting and thought that they were invincible because they've shot somebody. John knew that they were going to be the first to go. The brave ones die young, he thought as he heard them fighting with their chief, John had half a mind to get up and stop the shouting that could risk their hiding spots, but he was too late. He heard gunshots in the distance, and what sounded like bodies dropping. _

_It didn't sound like; he KNEW what bodies dropping sounds like, because he was the bloody doctor, meant in every sense of the term. _

_The gunfire was rapid, nonstop, didn't give him a chance to stand up and fight back. He heard another bullet get somebody. _

_"GET DOCTOR WATSON, GET HIM NOW!" _

_John groaned, the sound of the bullets on both sides were deafening, and he knew that it was a matter of time before he would hear the sounds of grenades blowing everything in its way to smithereens. John hoped that for just one fight, he wouldn't have to treat the bomb victims, too many things to reattach, greater risk of losing them, which happened. Only on what he would consider "bad days" though. He heard his name being called by multiple people, with a deep breath he muttered, _

_"Please God let me live." _

_And he shot up and dodged as many bullets as he could, tried to bypass the others as they fell to the hard dirt, with their lifeless eyes staring right back at him, haunting him. He made it to his unfortunate patients, tended to them as quickly and effectively as he could. He helped one of the others who was only grazed by a passing bullet carry a half-dead solider to the nearby tent, but the next then he knew, the man standing in front of him blew up, the stretcher flying out of his hands like something out of a movie. The other side's guns never ceased, and he saw everybody fall like dominoes around him, until he too, fell with the rest. His shoulder in searing pain, burning hot, bleeding out, mere minutes away from dying, he knew it. _

_It wasn't until he heard a familiar voice, all too familiar, a baritone voice shout, "JOHN!" _

_"Sherlock?"_

John shot out of the bed, covered in cold sweat, panting and frantically searching his room to get a sense of reality and where he was. He felt the tears coming, but no, not this time. He won't let them come through, he was a soldier, and goddamit soldiers don't cry.

But no matter what he told himself, it didn't seem to work, he found himself crying anyway, the dull pain in his leg coming back and those awful memories of the army, and of Sherlock flooding his mind. John was tough, but it seems that he's just becoming softer and softer with each passing day. He wasn't even sure if he was fully awake, sometimes having such vivid nightmares does that to you. He reached out and touched his bed, that was real, and then his dresser, that was real too. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was disheveled, but still real. There was only one more place to go.

He slowly felt himself creeping down the stairs, missing each and every step the creaked and made his way to the living room that was blessedly empty of anybody that lived there at the moment. He was surprised that Mrs. Hudson wasn't hoovering or dusting, or setting the tea on the table next to his armchair. Well, maybe she deserves to sleep in, just this once. That's not what he came down there for. He turned his head to the door that was slightly cracked, and started to tiptoe over there so he wouldn't wake Sherlock.

He opened the door and saw that the detective was still fast asleep, surprisingly cuddling with his blanket and snoring lightly. John wiped away the excess tears and smiled faintly to himself as he watched the younger man sleep, it was rare. He didn't know why but he was slowly reaching his hand out to caress something, anything, to let him know that he didn't make this all up and truly lost his sanity to extreme grief. He rested his hand on the dark curls that covered Sherlock's head and carefully ran his fingers through them, forgetting how soft they were and glad that they weren't six feet under, with maggots and other creatures mussing around in his perfect locks. Then he trailed his way to those chiseled cheekbones that enraptured him so. He's never seen anybody else with that kind of bone structure, but it fit Sherlock so well.

So ensconced was he that he almost didn't hear Mrs. Hudson's familiar knock and warning shout at the door. He had the door wide open, and he wasn't prepared to resuscitate an elderly woman back to life in their flat if she comes down the hall. He quickly ran out of the room and cracked the door on his way out.

_'Please don't let Sherlock wake up. Not now.' _

John immediately grabbed the remote and then sat down on his chair and flicked the telly on. Mrs. Hudson just entered through the door as he got himself in a comfortable position. She stared at him with the bright smile on her face as she had her duster in her hand.

"Good morning, John!"

With his best attempt at a smile, he replied, "Morning Mrs. H."

He did a double take and saw that she had his tea in one hand and a duster and the newspaper in the other.

"Mrs. Hudson, is that a duster I see?"

Mrs. Hudson looked down and then back at him with a nod.

"I thought it's time for me to go and dust Sherlock's room. If I know him well, he would hate to know that we've let sentiment get in the way of cleanliness."

John felt his heart drop. Out of all things… why today?

She took John's sudden silence as a signal that he didn't want to talk.

"I'm sorry; I shouldn't have brought him up. Still a touchy subject for you I see."

She set his cup of tea down and then started to make her way to the room. John took a quick sip of his tea and then shot out of the chair to beat Mrs. Hudson to the door so she wouldn't open it and see what was hidden inside.

"John, what's gotten into you? And why is the door open?"

John always wished he had Sherlock's talent for lying on the spot.

"Because I…I had to go in there one last time. You see…I miss him so much…."

Mrs. Hudson frowned and placed a hand on her cheek.

"Oh you poor dear."

John had to play along, he hated doing it but he couldn't let her go in there. John thought she was going to leave until he heard what sounded like Sherlock moan.

_'Shit.'_

"What was that? Did that come from the room?"

She made a move to go around John but he quickly stopped her again.

"I'm sure that was outside."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him like he was crazy but nodded in agreement.

"John I have to dust the room. It's hazardous to your health if you keep going in there."

_'Oh Mrs. Hudson…' _

"Really, I'll be fine Mrs. Hudson, go and attend to the chores downstairs."

Mrs. Hudson didn't want to fight with John, especially with the rough times he was going through, so she decided to leave it alone and then warned that she was going to come back and eventually dust. He waited until the door closed to let out the breath he wasn't aware that he was holding.

"That was too close."

And he heard Sherlock's footsteps approaching the door.


	7. Chapter 7

John moved out of the way as he watched the detective walk out, eyes wide as if he didn't know where he was, which he probably didn't. He had a hand to his head and looked to be in pain. John figured that he was suffering from a headache. Hopefully it wasn't anything serious. He walked right past John and found himself in the kitchen, standing there. John sighed and followed after him.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up at him with puppy dog eyes.

"Yes?"

"Are you okay? Do you need something?"

Sherlock broke their staring and closed his eyes and winced as his hand pressed onto his head. John crossed his arms; maybe it was a headache veering on migraine. Sherlock has had them before but they were rare and they weren't as painful as a migraine usually is. But this time he looked to be in serious pain.

"Head…hurts…"

John's brows furrowed, and he moved to touch Sherlock, who pulled away from his impending touch almost instantly. John's hand remained in mid motion as he took in Sherlock's gesture. He supposed that while Sherlock was talking to John, he wasn't fully comfortable being there, and John could understand that. John started walked to the bathroom and retrieved the bottle of Aspirin that he bought just in case of an emergency and made his way back over to the ailing man. He popped the bottle open and then took two pills out from it.

"Here, for your headache."

Sherlock squinted at the two white tablets in John's hand and then took them and swallowed it in one swift motion.

"Why don't you go take a seat? I'll go ahead and make you a cuppa."

Sherlock gave John an unsure look but listened to him and sat down on his armchair. John watched him for a few extra minutes before he filled the kettle up with water. While it was boiling, he walked over to his chair and sat and stared intently at the man who looked so lost. At times it looked like he was trying to remember but then that spark in his eyes, the one that John loved so much, just vanished. He rested a hand under his elbow as he waited for Sherlock to say something, but apparently, there was nothing to be said. Sherlock can be such an introvert at times.

John was startled by the whistling of the kettle and quickly shot up to stop it, as it didn't help Sherlock's condition any. As John prepared the tea, just the way Sherlock liked it; he couldn't stop thinking about how long it would be until someone else found out about Sherlock's body. Mrs. Hudson was starting to get suspicious and would start snooping around pretty soon. He hasn't heard from Molly or Lestrade in a while, but he knew they would turn up eventually. John wouldn't even begin to think about what Mycroft was up to at his place, if he was anything like Sherlock, if not worse; then he would be conniving to do something that wasn't going to be beneficial to anybody but himself and his little brother, but more so him.

The tea was finally done and so John slowly brought it over to Sherlock, who took it without looking at John. The doctor wished that he would look at him the way he used to, before the accident. Sherlock stared at the reddish liquid for a while until he took a sip, and then continued staring.

"Is something wrong?"

"Is this…is this how I drink my tea? I mean all the time not just right now."

John felt his mouth slowly moving downward at the question but he had to get used to them because there was going to be a lot more where that came from.

"Yes, Sherlock, this is how you like your tea, with two sugars and a bit of cream."

Sherlock seemed to be focused on his tea and continued taking small sips out of it. John moved to drink his own tea and immediately spit it back into the cup, as he forgot that it grew cold after not being touched for so long. He wasn't in the mood for iced tea at the moment. He set the cup back down and then turned his focus right back to Sherlock, who seemed to be recovering from the headache he had earlier.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Why did you have that headache earlier?"

"No reason."

John rolled his eyes.

"Are you sure? It looked like it was genuinely painful?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

John wanted to press him further but he realized that he wasn't as comfortable around John as he normally was, because this was a special situation. He just sat back in his chair and focused on the show that was on, which he didn't much care for.

"If I tell you, can you promise not to…overreact?"

John looked around and then slowly said, "Yes….?"

Sherlock set his tea cup down and then started to explain.

"Last night, while I was sleeping, I…dreamed something."

John was immediately interested in what the dream was he leaned forward and pressed his elbows on his thighs as he listened to Sherlock.

"What kind of dream?"

Sherlock looked like a child talking to his therapist for the first time. His head hung, and the arm that wasn't in the cast was moving about on his lap so he wouldn't have to gaze into John's eyes.

"It's hard to explain. All I saw were…flashes of….something."

John mentally sighed, as much as he hated therapy with Ella; he seemed to be in her position at the moment with his friend.

"Can you…explain these flashes?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"That's the thing, I can't. I only see…flashes."

A moment of silence passes before he speaks again.

"And then before I woke up, I thought I heard your voice, saying something to me."

John's eyebrow rose.

"What did "I" say, Sherlock?"

"I told you, I don't know!" He was getting impatient. John gave him a moment to cool off and then continue explaining.

"I could barely make out what you were saying, but you sounded so…sad…"

John couldn't believe this. Was Sherlock actually trying to remember, or was it just a subconscious attempt at a memory. Maybe Sherlock was only dreaming, and just confusing it with real life. John won't know, but he hoped to find out. The conversation quickly ended when Sherlock picked his tea back up and started sipping from it again.

"Is that why you got your headache?"

Sherlock didn't answer and John simply let him be and returned to the telly.


	8. Chapter 8

John and Sherlock spent their time in silence as they watched telly, well Sherlock wasn't exactly paying attention to it, because he was more interested in his tea, or he was trying to understand his troublesome dream he had last night. Although he couldn't see it, John was very worried for his flatmate, as he should be. He doesn't know how long he can keep it up, hiding Sherlock in his room like some type of pet that wasn't allowed in the building, listening about his friend's painful attempts at remembering. And the most painful of all is having to see his friend struggle with not knowing or remembering when that's what Sherlock was known for, that brilliant, big brain. The brain that John…

_'No stop it, that's not what you're supposed to be focused on. You're worried about Sherlock's wellbeing, you're not gay, remember that.' _He mentally shouted at himself. But was it really so bad to….admire…yes that's the term, admire Sherlock's traits? But as far as John was concerned, he's not gay because he doesn't like men, just the….

_'ENOUGH.'_

John had to pause. He was really having an argument with himself.

_'Jesus I need to get a grip.' _

His eyes darted over to Sherlock who was now invested in the television, guess that was because the news reporter said something interesting. Maybe it was a murder and Sherlock wanted to hear more about it, hopefully.

A few more moments passed before John saw that Sherlock's tea cup was half-empty and completely neglected as the owner of the drink was facing the television with his hands pressed under his chin and his grey eyes, that usually had a color tint to it was fixated on the crap telly that was on. John didn't even know why he put it on, he was barely watching it, and the last thing he needed at the moment was to hear a crowd shouting their opinion on a man who insists that the child isn't theirs. Sherlock didn't seem to mind it though; occasionally he would look to John and ask, "Why is he denying the child is his? He has his eyes and nose!"

John smiled at the detective. At least he was entertained. John remembered the cold tea and then moved to get up.

"Finished with your tea, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared as if he forgotten about it but then nodded.

"Yes."

As soon as John had the teacup in his hand, he heard Mrs. Hudson's footsteps on the stairs.

_'Shit.'_

As if someone was coming to kill them, John grabbed Sherlock's hand and placed a hand over the younger man's mouth so he wouldn't make any noise.

"Shh, listen to me, Sherlock; I'm going to need you to be very quiet…okay?"

Sherlock looked visibly confused and John fought every urge to burst out laughing at the expression as it's so rare on his face. He pulled Sherlock, rather harshly up the stairs that lead to his room and closed the door as soon as the main one opened. John and Sherlock were listening behind the door.

"Yoo-hoo!"

There were the two knocks on the door, Mrs. Hudson's way of letting John know that she was entering the flat.

"John!"

John kicked himself for being such a rude ass to his landlady, but he had to do this. He'll tell her…eventually…someday.

"Who is that?" Sherlock asked.

John pressed a finger to the soft lips and repeated what he said as they were running up the stairs.

"Shh, I promise, I'll tell you later, just for now…hush!" He whispered loudly.

Sherlock knew that John was serious and nodded and pressed his ear against the door. John hated having all of these secrets and having to keep them to himself. He was never the guy that people spilled their deepest and darkest secrets to, it just wasn't his style.

"John I just wanted to give you today's paper, I accidentally gave you yesterdays!"

She gave her rather adorable chuckle.

"Silly me, I guess!"

_'Just set it down Mrs. Hudson, and please…go have one of your herbal soothers or something.' _

Sherlock seemed curious as to what was going to happen next.

"Well, I'll just set it down here on your chair for whenever you decide to come back downstairs and continue watching your shows."

The door opened and closed and John couldn't be any more relieved. Sherlock was staring at John, and the doctor knew that it meant that he had questions.

With a sigh, John pushed himself off of the door and then faced Sherlock.

"Yes?"

"Will you answer my question now? Who is that lady?"

John placed a hand on the back of his head and started to rub it slowly. This was difficult to explain, or was he just making it out to be difficult? He didn't know and he didn't care. Answering Sherlock's question was important.

"That's Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock. She's…my…landlady.

"So what's wrong with her?"

"Pardon?"

Sherlock spoke slower, because he thought John didn't understand what he said.

"Why are we hiding from her?"

_'Because you're supposed to be dead, that's why I'm hiding YOU.' _

John couldn't say that to Sherlock, even if he did, not only would it wreck him to say it to his face, but then there would be so many questions that Sherlock would want to ask and they would probably be things John wouldn't have the answer to.

"We're hiding from her because…"

_'All these lies are going to bite me in the ass one day.' _

"You're not supposed to be here right now."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John knew how ridiculous he sounded but this was the only option.

"You're supposed to be away, in another country, doing…important stuff…"

"Like what?"

"That's not important right now. What is important is not letting Mrs. Hudson see you, okay?"

Sherlock was pondering this in his head, thinking about an answer. He finally agreed, much to John's fortune.

"I'm not sure about what's going on, but okay."

John looked down at his watch and grimaced at the time. He was half an hour late for work thanks to all of this madness. John started to flutter about his room, getting his work clothes ready so he can hurry up and change and not be any later. Sherlock was standing there watching him with his eyes fixated on John's.

_'God now's not the time to distract me with "that face", Sherlock.' _

"Where are you going?"

"To work, Sherlock, I got to make the money somehow."

Sherlock answered after a short bout of silence.

"Well why don't you stay here?"

John felt like he just looked at a kick puppy. Sherlock was already uncomfortable in being in 221b, but besides Mycroft, John is the only other face he knows. John hated to leave him alone, but he wouldn't be gone for long, and if Sherlock listens to him, nothing will happen.

"I can't, I've already taken too many days off. I have to go in today."

Sherlock looked down.

"Well what am I supposed to do while you're gone?"

"Anything you want. Just don't go downstairs to watch the telly, stay up here."

"And if I need to use the bathroom?"

"You can go downstairs and use the bathroom. And if you get hungry, there should be a pack of biscuits in the cabinet. No tea."

Sherlock nodded. Sometimes John felt like he was talking to a child, but it wasn't John's fault, and it wasn't Sherlock's fault either. Blame Moriarty for this. That's what John is trying to do.

John dashed downstairs to get dressed, and then returned shortly with his clothes on, coming to get his jacket.

"I won't be gone long, Sherlock. I'm sure you can manage."

Sherlock's head hung as he nodded grudgingly. He moved to sit down on John's bed.

"Can I at least watch the telly up here?"

John gave a curt nod.

"Just keep it low."

"Okay."

John moved to the door and gave Sherlock a quick once over before heading downstairs. As he passed Mrs. Hudson's apartment, he gave a quick, "I'm off to work now, see you later Mrs. Hudson!"

When the front door was closed, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat with her arms crossed. She wasn't mad; she was just…puzzled at John's actions as of late. Not dwelling too much on it, she looked upstairs and muttered to herself, "I guess I can dust the room now."

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry if it seems a bit dull right now, I promise it will start picking up pace in the next chapter!**


	9. Chapter 9

John sat in his cab to work with an uneasy feeling. This whole thing was a bad idea, the flat is only so big, Mrs. Hudson was bound to find him soon, or Sherlock would do something and wander out of the flat or run into her or one of their other friends and John can only imagine their reactions. With a stressed sigh, John sank into his seat and placed a hand over his face. The cabbie noticed his passenger's distress and asked, "What's the matter, mate? You and your girlfriend have a spat?"

John spread his fingers apart and glared through the little slit where his eye was showing.

"If only that was the case."

The cabbie knew that John's reply was his cue to shut up and continue driving, which he caught and focused on driving.

_'Don't do something stupid Sherlock. I can't afford to rush our landlady to the hospital when I get back.' _

John thought that taking care of his patients would distract his mind, but all it did was make it worse. There seemed to be an abundance of head-related injuries in the office today. Little kids crying and screaming, holding their heads, and the mothers who didn't know what the problem was because they were too busy worrying about their child's over exaggerated cries and trying to figure out a way to get them to stop. Or grown men and women who either fell and hit their head, or they just woke up with a headache and decided to drive all the way down here to hear what they already know. John wasn't even going to think about that one couple who both got head injuries because they wanted to try something…new…in their bedroom. Sometimes John wondered if everybody was just this stupid, or if there was a new virus spreading.

_"That's because you're an idiot. Don't look at me like that, practically everyone is." _

John remembered that from the conversation they had when they first met, during the suicide-murders. The awful time John went through after being released from service. The spiraling depression and loneliness he went through. The amount of times he looked at the handgun he had hidden in his drawer, thinking about all of the times he considered pressing it to his temple and pulling the trigger. He was going to do it that day, the day he ran into Mike Stamford and met Sherlock. He owes Sherlock so much; he saved his life in so many ways. The least John could do was try and save Sherlock as much as he could.

He wondered what Sherlock was doing at the moment, probably still watching crap telly, hopefully he wasn't screaming at the telly like he was so close to doing earlier. John played many scenarios in his head. He imagined coming home to find Mrs. Hudson standing in the living room, with Sherlock staring at her with his usual blank expression on, and the elderly woman looking like she's about to pass out. Or another image of Mrs. Hudson screaming her head off and Sherlock standing there looking equally surprised, hell he even imagined Sherlock trying to hush her and scaring her even more by placing his hand on top of her mouth and trying to shush her.

John couldn't help but laugh at that mental movie, but still, it would be preferable if none of that happened and John returned to find Sherlock sitting on his bed, maybe napping, which would be even better for John. Sherlock doesn't snore loudly, if at all, and even if Mrs. Hudson were to go up there she wouldn't hear anything, her hearing isn't as sharp as it might have been years ago.

John's message alert goes off on his phone, startling him a little bit. He fishes in his pocket and for a second thinks that it's Sherlock calling him, but it couldn't have been, he doesn't know John's number, and doesn't have his mobile on him. He threw it when he was on top of the….

_'Can't think about that now….focus on right now, not in the past….'_

He looked at his screen and saw that the message was from Molly.

_"Hey John, been a while hasn't it? I know we've all had to deal with…that…day at St. Barts in our own way. I just want to know if you would…like to hang out sometime. I can understand if you're still upset about everything and say no, but I think it would help us if we actually talked to each other._

_Anyway, feel free to say no, or yes. I'll leave you alone, sorry about my rambling. _

_ -Molly xx" _

John had half a mind to say no. He knew Molly meant well in her intentions, she always meant well. She was a nice girl who has a tendency to get pushed around by other people. But John felt like he didn't have the time to go and see Molly (or he just wanted to avoid all contact from all of his friends.) Sherlock still needed him, and John needs Sherlock. Though he has been thinking that maybe he should just drop him off at Mycroft for a while. Just until Sherlock could remember a few things or John could actually get his shit together and help his best friend.

No, that was selfish of John. Sherlock was the one who was suffering, even if he didn't know it. But wasn't John suffering too? To spend so long thinking that his dearest friend was dead, that he jumped to his death in front of him, only to find that he planned that whole thing and kept him out of the loop. John had to get a phone call from Mycroft, explaining that his brother wasn't dead, just partially alive, only to come to his home to find his amnesiac flatmate standing there looking as lost as a child. Didn't John have a say in this? Was he expected to just accept everything that's happened? Dismiss it all as a dream? Act like none of it never happened?

The sad thing about this was that, yes, he was. He's supposed to dance around his flat and do what he would normally do as if the "suicide" never happened and live his life. He was supposed to spend who knows how long hiding Sherlock from his friends, act like Sherlock was supposed to be dead, treat him like his and Mycroft's dirty secret. He felt bad for Sherlock. Who knows how he's feeling at the moment, being taken to an unfamiliar place and told to stay there with a stranger who says that you've always lived there, to struggle with remembering something as simple as a childhood birthday, and to be told that you can't leave a room until said stranger comes back. To be treated like a….well John didn't want to think of it this way, but he was being treated like an animal, a scared and confused animal, who probably couldn't even remember his name. John doesn't know what's more stressful at this point, the army or this. At least in the army, his only instructions were to heal, duck, and shoot if necessary. This, this was a whole new type of battlefield, a different kind of war.

Looking back down at his phone, he unlocked it and started typing back.

_"Hey Molly, got your message. Sorry, can't hang out with you today. I'm going to be busy for a while at work so I don't know when I'll be free, I'll message you when I have a chance to grab a pint with you. Sound good?" _

Almost instantly, he got a response.

_"Oh that's alright, that was stupid of me to message you anyway. Have a good night John, and message me when your schedule clears up, kay? _

_-Molly xx" _

John put his phone away and rested his chin on his hand.

"Whenever that'll be…."

He looked at his clock. Thirty minutes more and he'll leave and start job number two. It was just like he told Mycroft, there'll never be a dull moment, right?


	10. Chapter 10

Mrs. Hudson was sitting in her chair, just finishing her herbal soother and letting the effects sink in. She was already starting to feel lighter, everything seemed to move…slower, and she was even feeling a bit peckish. She found herself laughing at nothing, or maybe she was thinking of something that was funny. She looked around at her flat and saw that either she or it was floating, like a cloud. She stared down at her hands and waved them around and giggled even louder. She was the only one in the building, and in the confines of her flat so she could do what she wanted, right? Besides, she's only taking the soothers because of her hip; they can be a pain at times, specifically whilst she's cleaning.

She gasped.

"Bugger, I forgot to dust the room!"

She looked at the clock that was hanging on her wall.

"Well I have a good, five or ten minutes before John gets back home from work. Better get started now."

She clumsily rose from her rather uncomfortable chair and then gathered her duster and started heading upstairs.

John stared at his clock and then at his watch and got up from his office chair, got his coat and locked up for the day. He walked over to the front desk and approached the secretary. She was new, just started working at the office a few weeks ago because the one before her just had a baby and so she got maternity leave for the rest of the year. She was shy, and very nice. Her blonde hair was tied behind her head in a neat ponytail; she had on pale pink lipstick and light blush on her cheeks. John guessed that she was going out with her boyfriend or some friends after her shift today. She had a wide smile on her face.

"Hello, John!"

He met her warm brown eyes and gave something of a smile.

"Hello, Janice."

John couldn't tell if she was blushing or if it was just her make-up. She started fidgeting with her sparkly pen that wrote in purple ink. Sometimes John wondered if she was an adult, or just a really mature looking teenager who was about to finish her senior year.

"What brings you over here?"

_'Don't make a sarcastic response. She's young and naïve, she won't be able to understand it.' _

"Just here to clock out for the day, or did they move it another desk?"

_'Dammit.'_

She didn't seem offended by the joke; she chuckled and started typing away on the computer. He tried to not make direct eye contact with her, because she would never stop staring otherwise. She stopped messing with her computer and then went right back to that awful pen she insisted on writing with. John was waiting for the all clear but she wasn't saying anything. John groaned, he didn't have time for this.

"So, John…"

"Yes?"

"I was wondering if you…would like to…have dinner sometime."

John mentally sighed loudly. What was it with everybody asking him out, now? Sure she seemed like a nice girl, probably funny when she wasn't being bashful and sometimes creepy. But he wasn't her type, he wouldn't be able to hear about her new kitten or puppy for an hour-long date and then have to go to her house and probably find her room painted some fluffy and adorable color like powder blue, or carnation pink, or lilac.

_'Can I be anymore harsh right now?' _

John groaned and placed a hand on his cheek as he stared at her.

_'Let her down gently.'_

"Janice."

She perked up at the mention of her name. John had to keep reminding himself that there's no need to be a prick and hurt her feelings.

"You're a smart girl and all, hell, you're gorgeous too."

She looked like she was about to pass out. Surely her crush wasn't this deep, he barely knew her!

"But I'm not really looking for a date, there's too much going on in my life right now. I'm not ready to bring anybody into my problems, just yet."

Her eyes were downcast and she all but dropped her beloved writing utensil.

"Oh."

He rubbed the back of his neck and then slowly started to back away. He was never good at letting girls down, because when he did, it tended to be awkward. Hell, it was awkward when Sherlock turned him down when they first met.

_'He didn't turn me down, it was just a misunderstanding. And that's why it was awkward.' _

"So can I go?"

She nodded and he turned to walk away. He was almost out of distance when he heard her start talking.

"I guess it was rather silly. I thought I had a chance with you…but ever since Sherlock Holmes died, I haven't read about you having a girlfriend in the magazines, or even on your blog. My friend Jeanette was right; Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man. Look at how much you love him, even after he died."

John sighed and turned back around.

"I don't love Sh-"

She shushed him.

"That's what you always say, on your blog especially."

John crossed his arms, and Janice got up. She does have a nice set of legs.

"But when you write, you don't see how much you admire him, how much you respect him. Your fondness of the man, Jeanette told me that you were jealous of this "woman" that Sherlock was upset about."

"Now hold on just a min-"

"You romanticize this man on your blog write-ups, you say all of these nice things about him, and you defend him if somebody in the comments says something particularly harsh, and Jeanette also told me that you wrote poetry to her in attempts to woo her. In a way, that's what you're doing on your blog. Your entries are poems dedicated to Sherlock Holmes."

"He's incredible, and I want people to see how brilliant he is, but that doesn't mean I love him."

She chuckled.

"You can deny it all you want, but all of your friends and fans see it. John Watson is in love with Sherlock Holmes."

John didn't know how to respond to that. He just spun on his heel and marched out of the clinic so he can return home and attempt to sort his life out.

Mrs. Hudson was dusting away in the room for about half an hour. She didn't realize how much dust can accumulate in one room until she started this job. A lot of sneezes and coughs later, she finally completed her task and left the room. She looked up at the clock.

"John should be home any minute now."

She continued to the hallway where she saw the bathroom door open and what looked like the back of Sherlock's head. Still feeling the effects of her herbal medication, she simply stared in disbelief. He didn't seem to notice her; he closed the door and then walked up the stairs. She was shocked and couldn't find a way to move.

"Was that Sherlock?"

After much debating in her head, she decided that it wasn't real, just a hallucination caused by the drug. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes and walked down the stairs to her flat. She was going to have a talk with John when he got back.

Pretty soon, she heard the front door open.

"Mrs. H, I'm back!"

"I'm in here!"

He walked over to her door and opened it. She was sitting at her dinner table with a cup of freshly made tea next to her. He smirked and greeted her again. She looked out of it, so John gave her a little shake.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

She snapped out of her daze and then looked at John with a wide smile.

"Oh, John, you nearly gave me a heart-attack!"

"I'm sorry, but what's the matter, you look distant."

Her smile disappeared.

"I suppose I do. It's just…are you seeing somebody else, John?"

His eyes widened.

"What?!"

"Well I wouldn't usually think something like that but when you wouldn't let me in the room, and I heard that moan, I simply let it slide. But then this morning, you had two cups of tea out next to both chairs, and then Sherlock's bed wasn't made, as if somebody slept on it recently, and you've been acting strangely. I just think that it's so soon after Sherlock…"

"Mrs. Hudson, I am not gay, remember that. And anyway, I simply forgotten that you made me tea, I've been miles away ever since the fall so if I've been acting out of the ordinary, just disregard it."

She resigned to a nod and John was satisfied with the answer. He was going to leave until she said, "I also thought that I saw Sherlock today. But I think that was just one of the effects of my medication. Or maybe I'm beginning to miss him a lot more than I originally thought."

"You…saw Sherlock?"

"Yes but don't think that he was actually there. It's just the grief getting to me."

"Yes…the grief…"

John swung the door open.

"Excuse me Mrs. Hudson; I have to…go upstairs for a moment…."

She got up and walked over to the door to call after John.

"I'm sorry, love, I didn't mean to touch a nerve."

"No, no, it's…fine…"

He sped up the stairs to his flat, leaving Mrs. Hudson high and confused.


	11. Chapter 11

John made his way upstairs to find that Sherlock was still in his room, probably watching Television all day, minus the bathroom breaks. He walked up the stairs to his room to find Sherlock sitting down on the edge of his bed, eating chocolate ice cream out of the carton with a spoon. John wanted to be mad at Sherlock, but when he saw the detective in that position on his bed, he tried his best to look serious and not laugh at him. He crossed his arms and straightened his face while still standing in the doorway.

"Sherlock."

The grey eyes now had a tint of green at the sight of John. John always loved Sherlock's eyes, he had heterochromia, and he had blue, green, and gold coloring in his eyes. Though they acted like a mood ring at most times.

"John!"

His mouth was full of ice cream, so it sounded muffled. Something inside of John fluttered when Sherlock said his name like that. He was happy to see him. But John had to tell him to be more discreet. He closed the door behind him and sat down on the bed. Sherlock didn't seem to sense that John wasn't happy.

"I'm sorry about the ice cream. I got hungry, and I couldn't find the biscuits."

John put his arm up to stop him.

"It's alright, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped talking and then placed the spoon in the carton. He finally got a clue that John wasn't happy.

"What's wrong, have I upset you?"

John shrugged.

_'The problem is that I might be in love with you.' _

"So Mrs. Hudson and I had a talk."

"Okay."

"She told me that she saw the back of your head today while she was up here."

"She saw me?"

John nodded.

"But lucky for you she just had her herbal soother, so she dismissed you as one of her hallucinations."

Sherlock looked at the TV and then back at John.

"Come here, there's something I want to show you."

"On the telly?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, now hurry before it goes away!"

John sat down on the bed and watched as Sherlock was about to fall off because he was so anxious to show John whatever it was that he saw. The news anchor was talking about a recent murder and the screen cut to show the police cars and ambulances and then it showed Lestrade talking to Sally while the anchor was talking.

_'Oh God.'_

Sherlock pointed to the screen, right on top of Lestrade's face. He looked back at John and steadied himself so that he wouldn't break his other arm falling off of the bed.

"See, look, that's what I wanted to show you."

John swallowed hard. He didn't want Sherlock to see his unease at him mentioning Greg. Sherlock didn't seem to notice either because he was too wrapped up in his own world, as usual.

"What about him?"

"Who is that?"

"That's Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Why?"

"Can I meet him? I feel like I've seen him before."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Sherlock?"

The younger man's face fell.

"Why not?"

"Because he's on a case right now, and it wouldn't be polite if we just followed him around trying to talk to him. We'd be distracting him."

Sherlock started fidgeting with his hands again.

"But I could help him with the case. "

John wanted to tell him that he wasn't going either way, and that was final. But didn't he also want Sherlock to remember his friends? To remember what happened before his "death"? Didn't Mycroft send him here so John could do just that? John pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to get his shit together, Sherlock needs him. John is the only face that Sherlock might be comfortable around, or that he might actually partially remember. But he's not ready to unveil his friend to the world yet.

"What makes you think that?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Every time I look at him, I feel like that's something I could do. Solve the crime."

_'You can solve the crime, Sherlock. You just don't know it yet.' _

"I'm sorry Sherlock. But you can't meet him."

"Why, do I know him?"

John didn't answer.

"Do…you know him?"

Another moment of silence passed before Sherlock said something else. John would just wish that Sherlock would leave it alone and wait until John was ready to explain but that was in his nature. Sherlock Holmes hates not knowing anything and being kept in the dark must be maddening to him. He just wants to understand why John was being so hush-hush about everything. From the moment he woke up in the hospital, Sherlock has been tossed around by Mycroft and John without a clue why.

"I have to go take a shower, Sherlock. I haven't been able to this morning because I was running late."

Sherlock knew that John purposefully changed the subject. He gave a resigned nod.

"Okay John."

John felt bad but he just didn't know how to handle this the right way, if there was even a right way. He gathered his clothes and then glanced at Sherlock, who was watching a detective show now, before heading downstairs.

_'God give me strength…'_

A Few Days Later  
~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was getting on John's last nerve. He's been pestering John nonstop and asking question after question after question. He would purposefully make loud noises whenever John was trying to relax so he could get his attention and ask more questions. John wanted to answer them, he really did, but then Sherlock wouldn't be able to comprehend it all. Sherlock's not stupid, he's far from it. He knows Sherlock doesn't mean to do it; it's just that John is more frustrated with himself more than he is his flatmate. Though John was trying his hardest to not tell Sherlock to shut the hell up, he was damn near close to it.

He decided that it was the perfect time to hang out with Molly, get away from it all. Get away from Sherlock, from his denial with feelings, and everything else. A pint with a friend sounded heavenly to him. He whipped out his phone and went to Molly on his contact.

_"Hey Molly, I have some free time, still up for that pint?" _

He only had to wait a few seconds when his phone vibrated.

_"Yeah, a pint does sound rather good at the moment. It gives me a chance to unwind. I'll meet you at our usual pub within the next hour._

_-Molly xx" _

John tucked his phone back into his pocket and smiled to himself. It was nice to look forward to something that wasn't his job or….

_'Stop that. None of this is Sherlock's fault. He barely even knows who he is.' _

John sighed loudly. Sherlock, who was sitting on the couch, looked over at John.

"What's the matter?"

John shook his head.

"Nothing, I'm just going out with a friend."

"A friend?"

John nodded.

"Yes Sherlock, a friend."

Sherlock let that sink in for a minute. John didn't sound happy, once again. Sherlock wanted to know what he did now. John seemed to be mad at him a lot for some reason, surely there was a reason for it. Hopefully John will tell him.

"…Will you be gone for long?"

"Not for too long, maybe for an hour or so."

Sherlock hated it when John left. He doesn't know why, but he just does. There's something about John…

John got his coat and then walked over to the door.

"You know what to do, right?"

"Yes John. I am to stay upstairs until you come back."

"Good."

John had to leave. The air in the room was just oppressive. He wanted to take Sherlock out, who knows what being in the house for days on end could do to you, but he couldn't. Because Sherlock Holmes isn't supposed to be there, he's supposed to be dead. He was supposed to commit suicide, but he didn't. And for now, this is all John can do.

_'You're doing this to help him. It's for his own good.' _

John had to keep reminding himself. It was the only way to cope.


	12. Chapter 12

John walked over to the pub where Molly was standing, along with Lestrade, surprisingly. Once she spotted him, she had a wide smile on her face and started waving him over. Lestrade seemed to already have a pint in his hand, John wasn't even surprised.

"John!"

Once he made his way over to him, she wrapped him in a hug. Lestrade was just sitting there, with his usual smile on. She released him and then gave one more glance.

"It's great to see you again!"

John nodded.

"Yes, it's…nice to see you too."

"Oi! I'm standing here too."

John laughed and gave Greg a nice bro hug, which entailed of a nice clasp of the hand and a pull into each other, followed by the one affectionate back slap. They also let go of each other and everybody was just standing there. Molly was the one to break the silence.

"Well then, we're all here, let's go inside!"

John motioned for them to head in first and he followed them inside. He sat down on one of the stools and then watched as his friends took their seats. Molly just couldn't stop smiling.

"I hope you don't mind that I brought Greg with me. This was the only time he was free."

John held his hand up for her to stop talking and gave her a polite smile.

"It's alright, Molly. I'm happy to see you guys again. It's been a while…since…you know…"

Molly frowned and looked away. Greg was drinking from his pint but he still looked affected by the words.

"Yes we know…we know that it wasn't easy for you, it wasn't easy for us either."

"It's just so hard, you know?"

Greg nodded.

"Yeah, we know."

"It's just so hard to understand that he's gone. He's dead. I lost my best friend."

Molly gave a sheepish smile and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"We miss him too. I keep thinking that he's going to come to the morgue and ask me to pull up a body I already put through processing to help with the case."

Lestrade laughed.

"And I keep thinking that he's going to waltz into the crime scene as he pleases and ask me for the full details."

John smirked.

_'That's what he was trying to do today.'_

"How's Mrs. Hudson taking it? I know that Sherlock and she were very close."

John let out a breath and gave a small smile.

"Yeah, she's not taking it so well either. She tries to be positive for me, but I know that it's not working. That doesn't stop her from trying though. We had dinner the other night."

Molly's smile perked up.

"And how was that?"

"The best it could be for two, lonely, grieving people."

Greg interrupted.

"So it wasn't very satisfying."

"Nope, it was awkward, minus the few conversations we had. But it helped a tiny bit."

Greg chuckled and took another swig from his pint. Molly just kind of toyed with hers. She wasn't a big drinker, in fact, John wasn't even sure if she drank at all because he's rarely seen Molly outside of work. John however, was half-way done with his. He really needed it, even if it wasn't much. He was so stressed out, but he tried not to be. He tried to be optimistic and look on the bright side, but that just wasn't in his nature. John was a realist.

Greg got a notification on his phone, and held it up with one hand as he took his drink with the other. His eyebrows rose and he put his phone down back in his pocket.

"That was Sergeant Donovan. Excuse me, I gotta take this."

He walked away from John and Molly and over to the entrance. John stared at Molly while the other was staring at the man on the phone. It took John a minute to realize that Molly was staring at him intently while his attention was away. His brows furrowed.

"Jesus, Molly, that's…kind of creepy."

"I'm sorry it's just...I have to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"I was wondering….where exactly is Sherlock?"

John's eyes widened.

"What?"

"I mean. I know he isn't actually dead, because I helped with the project."

Molly was a part of the Lazarus project?

"Sherlock told me not to tell you because he didn't want to give it away to Moriarty, but now I have no choice but to ask."

"No it's…it's alright, Mycroft told me about it."

She looked eager.

"So you talked to Mycroft? Did he tell you anything about Sherlock? When I saw him at the hospital, he didn't look to be in a good way."

John's head hung low. He doesn't know if he should tell her about Sherlock. If she doesn't know, it's probably best that he keeps it that way.

While they were talking, Lestrade was still on the phone with Donovan.

"I know that he wants the evidence, just tell him that we can't provide him with any at the moment."

"You and I both know that we'll just be digging a deeper hole for ourselves. He's already pissed that the media found out so soon and you know how he can be when he's angry," Sally said over the line.

Lestrade ran a hand through his grey locks.

"He can be a right arsehole. I know."

"Look, we can either tell him that we don't have any evidence, or we can tell him that there is no evidence."

"I don't know. What won't get us killed or suspended?"

"I'm not sure sir."

Lestrade gave a frustrated sigh.

"Where's Sherlock when you need him?"

Sally didn't respond immediately.

"I understand that you miss him, but we can get through this without him. We have no choice but to now."

"Yeah, you're right. As infuriating as he can be at times, he was still the best thing that happened to Scotland Yard."

Sally sighed.

"What, don't act like that. You know that he was damn effective, even if you didn't like him."

"Greg, sir, we don't have time for this…"

"Yes, yes, I know…"

While Greg was on the phone, he felt somebody tap his shoulder. He was facing the other way so he didn't know who it was.

"Excuse me, are you Greg Lestrade?"

Lestrade just shrugged the stranger off. He was too distracted with his phone call to recognize the voice. The stranger kept at it.

"I won't be but a moment."

Greg was getting aggravated.

"Yes…sorry, this guy won't stop prodding my back."

"I need to talk to you!"

Greg had enough and turned around whilst shouting, "Alright! What do you want m—"

He turned around to see Sherlock standing there. His mouth hung open and he felt his hand falling slowly from his ear.

"Greg?! Greg?! Hello?"

"I gotta…call…you back…"

He hung up the phone. He was just staring at Sherlock, the incredibly alive detective. John happened to peer over his shoulder and saw Lestrade staring at Sherlock. John's distraction caused Molly to turn around and then all three of them were wide-mouthed messes. John whispered under his breath, "Oh God…"


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock was still standing there, with his hand in his pocket and a hopeful look on his face. He didn't seem to notice that almost everybody in the pub, mainly John, Molly, and Greg were staring at him like they're witnessing the second coming of Jesus. John was frozen in his seat, he didn't know how to react; he didn't even know what to say. If he catches Sherlock's attention, they're going to know that John already knew about his resurrection and that would only result in more problems which neither of them needed at the moment. Greg didn't blink in over a minute and John wasn't even sure if he was breathing anymore.

"Sherlock…"

The detective's brows furrowed.

"You said my name…"

Greg nodded, like he wasn't even aware that he was talking.

"Yes…of course I did…"

"How do you know me?"

Greg finally blinked and his mouth started to move and John couldn't help but be relieved that he was actually alive.

"Wha-"

Before Greg could even begin to get his thoughts and words together, Sherlock looked over at Molly and John and his eyes widened so much, John thought that they were going to pop out of his head. John didn't know what he gotten himself into. He could see all of the questions he was going to have to answer in a few seconds. He felt as if he would need to get a table with a bottle of water and a few microphones and hold a press conference.

"John?"

Molly looked over at John with a confused face on.

"Sorry, why is he calling you?"

_'You never were good with timing, Sherlock.' _

"Excuse me; I…have to go…"

John was speeding over to Sherlock with the sternest look on his face. Sherlock looked like a deer in headlights as he tried to process what exactly was going on. He saw John nearing him and for some reason, he had the feeling that he was in trouble. That maybe he shouldn't have done that, but it wasn't his fault.

"John, I—"

Said person grabbed Sherlock by his good arm and forcefully pulled him out of the pub. Sherlock wanted to tell John his side of the story but John seemed upset and very eager to return home. He turned back around and said, "Sorry guys, I'll reschedule!"

Sherlock heard the girl he was sitting with shout his name and the man he knew as Lestrade was still standing there like an idiot. Sherlock wanted to laugh but he thought that John wasn't in the mood for that. They made it all the way back to their flat and John let go of Sherlock's wrist, which the younger man was grateful for. He was starting to cramp up because of John's death grip.

John started pacing back and forth and Sherlock wasn't sure what to do.

"John, I can explain."

"Just…sit down Sherlock."

John had reserved anger in his voice, and it was the soldier in him that kept it all inside and hidden away enough so that he could talk. Sherlock found himself slowly sinking down to the couch and watching John's movements carefully. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be scared, or angry just like John. There were so many things he had to say to him, and he knew that John wasn't telling him everything. Ever since he came back from the hospital or put here by…Mycroft was his name, right? John stopped pacing and clenched his fists and stood in front of Sherlock.

"What the HELL were you thinking?!"

"I…"

"Why don't you ever listen to me? I tell you to do one thing and then you go ahead do the opposite! You never listen! You always have to do what you want; it's always your way, because you're too bloody stubborn to listen to anybody else!"

Sherlock doesn't know who John is yet, besides his name and the fact that they had some sort of relationship in the past but for the guy who's claiming to be his best friend, he was sure acting like he was more like his caretaker and not his friend. He wanted to explain but John wouldn't let him get a word in and insisted on screaming the house down. While John was hooting and hollering, he didn't notice that Mrs. Hudson came upstairs because she heard all of the commotion.

"John what is the matter? You're screaming like you've-"

She gasped and a hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh my god…is that…?"

John stopped screaming and looked behind him and saw his landlady there, looking like she's just seen a ghost. Her frantic eyes flashed from Sherlock to John. John's lip twitched.

"Mrs. Hudson…"

"What's he doing here?" She asked through tears," He's supposed to be…"

She didn't finish the sentence and closed the door on the way back down the stairs. John gave the loudest sigh Sherlock ever heard escape his lips and ran his hand roughly through his hair. Since John wasn't screaming at him anymore, Sherlock decided to talk.

"…W-What was she talking about, John?"

John looked at him like he forgot he was there for a minute. Sherlock asked again.

"Why did she act like that when she saw me?"

John hesitated for a minute.

"Because she wasn't expecting you back so soon…"

Sherlock shook his head.

"She acted like she saw a ghost or something. And so did Greg and the lady you were with at the pub. And I thought you didn't know Greg."

"Sher— I never said I didn't know him, I never answered your question…"

"I know you didn't."

John knew that Sherlock finally had enough of this and wanted answers.

"What exactly is going on here? Why do you keep me holed up in here, this place that I don't even know, for days on end and tell me that I can't move from your…prison until you come back home!"

"Because…"

"Why is it that every time I ask you a question about my past or about our apparent "history" together, you always dodge it?"

John had no answer this time.

"I only went to the pub because…Mycroft…I think his name was came upstairs and asked me to accompany him to his car. HE TOOK ME THERE."

John's mouth hung open. He should've known that Mycroft was going to intervene sooner or later. He didn't like the way John was handling the situation it seemed. John didn't like the way he was handling the situation either. It was Sherlock's turn to stand up and take over the task of yelling.

"Ever since I woke up at the hospital, you and Mycroft have been telling me things that I have no clue about, Mycroft dropped me off here, I barely know who you are, and everything just seems so…confusing…."

John frowned as Sherlock's tone softened and he sort of deflated into the couch.

"I don't know what it is, John. But every time I look at you, all I see is this sadness and I don't why but I always feel like it's my fault. When I sleep I keep hearing your voice shout my name, but everything goes black and then I wake up with a headache. It's all so maddening because…I feel like I should know these things…but I don't…I think I can remember…but I don't know…Everybody that's seen me look so…miserable and scared and I want to know why, John. So I'm asking you…"

John could've sworn he saw Sherlock's eyes water.

"Help me remember who I am…"


End file.
